


Switching

by tori_trevor



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tori_trevor/pseuds/tori_trevor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They live in a world where bonding via D/s couplings aren't normal, but they are accepted. The world is different, with new categories of relationships being discovered.<br/>The laws were used to protect Subs. Collaring was a sacred thing.</p><p>Joan Watson is new to this subculture of sorts. She doesn't know what she got into, not by a long shot. She doesn't know she can claim someone, because she thinks she is a Normal, one without the ability to bond.</p><p>She is Joan Watson, a Normal, a supporter of equality for all species and all types, and she just became an unwilling assailant to a Sub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Not-So-Often Regular

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing and this mess appeared on my screen. I'm sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Sherlock is the Client.

                It was an odd job, one she hadn't meant to do. It was only meant to supplement her schedule, something a colleague at the clinic mentioned, nothing else. She wasn't really doing things like this, wasn't into it. She'd applied for the job as receptionist, as a gag (and didn't that put an image in her mind), stating she also had a medical degree. If anything, they liked having trained medical professionals in their ranks, some of the woman and men had various certifications, renewed yearly. When he walked in, pushing aside the doors, hearing the creak of the old wood and the chirpy ring of the bell, she had turned, a soft smile on her face, like she was taught. Treat everyone as a switch until further instructed by them. They're all mostly regulars so you'll be fine. Provided you remember them all, Joanie.

 "Watson, what a delightful surprise." Embarrassment coloured his words, a pink hue overtaking his pale face.

"Right. Making or taking an appointment?"

"Miss Tasha is in, isn't she?" She nods, trying to ignore the way he said her name, the name of the most expensive and physically dominating woman.

"She's with a new client. Might be a few minutes time. If you'll take a seat," she asks, gesturing toward the sitting room. He nods, eyes focused on her.

"I would have never--"

"I'm not. My friend suggested the job. That's all."

"Did they? How ... interesting."

"Shush and go wait for your companion."

"You're mine."

"Not like that."

"No," he mumbles thoughtfully. "Not like that."

 

Natasha, a fiery and curvaceous redhead, was one of the few people Joan related to, having changed careers spontaneously. She claimed it was because of a man she had met, but Joan couldn't believe it. No one as self-reliant as Natasha would ever fit as one of those women.

 

At the moment, however, she eyed her behind the counter, in her stupid leather costume and her favourite client, and god, how has she not noticed she would always speak of Sherlock? She took a breath, smiling like she had been taught, and introduced Natasha, like she had been trained, and watched the ginger woman stalk toward her flatmate, and turned away.

 

It had been bad enough she had witnessed his coming into this ... place, but now she was going to encroach on their time?

 

"Mr. House," she purred, probably dragging her long red nails down his shirt.

"Miss ... Miss Tasha."

"Such a delightful surprise, coming back. Come along."

 

He went without another word, not to Nat, not to her. And she expelled a breath she hadn't noticed she had been holding, and greeted the next customer.

 

* * *

 

"Joanie?"

"Nat? What's wrong? Is someone--?"

"No, we're all fine. We're closing, anyway. Can I buy you a coffee?"

"Rosie's is open," she said with a grin.

"Ten minutes? I'll pack up and you can change." She left without another word, leaving a confused doctor in her mist.

 

She slid into the booth farthest from the door, watching Natasha step into the side across from her. The waitress handed out menus, waiting patiently, as they were no other customers. She jotted down the orders, face flushed as Natasha flirted with her, causing Joan to grin.

"You could have been a bit more subtle."

"Life is short. I take no prisoners, unless they're hot. Anyway, you and House, huh? I didn't peg you as a ... you know."

"Hm? Oh, he's someone I work with."

"That's it?"  
"What else would there be?"  
"Awkwardness, for one! I mean, you greeted him, for god's sake! If you two work together, imagine how--"

"He's not like that. He wouldn't do that."

"Are you sure?"

"Hopefully."

"Listen, Joanie, if we had known, we would have never--"

"Nat, I know. In fact, when I saw his false name, I should have known. Some of you don't actually use your real names."

"So how obvious was it?"

"His last name's Holmes, if that gives you an idea." The waitress shuffled over, cherry red.

"Thanks, sweetheart. If you were--"

"Thank you," Joan pressed, taking the plates.

"You're no fun."

"Funny, that's not what they tell me." Natasha grinned.

"Oh, I bet. So, if you're not a ... Why is ... I don't know how to explain it."

"With actual English words might be helpful."

"You're funny."

"Hilarious. I'm not like you, no offence."

"Hey, I'm just saying ... you saw how the S-squad reacted to you on your first day."

"I have to be commanding. Otherwise, I can't do my job."

"It's the way you act, regardless."

"Nat, give me one example of me taking command."

"Today."

"You mean in the Peach Room? It's my job, Nat."

"No, not that; when you greeted Holmes."

"Oh no, Nat. Not this again. You know, I had to deal with your silly S-squad admirers trailing after me because of your little story. All the other ... attendants glared at me. I had Lily follow me all day, asking me if I needed anything."

"Heard about that, how was it? She's a pretty little thing."

"I didn't notice."

"You liar."

"Okay, I didn't want to notice."

"Why not?"

"I'm not going to date a co-worker."

"So you're not dating Holmes?"

"What?"

"So what is it? Like how does it work? I mean, for someone who denies our culture so much, you fit in perfectly."

"Wow. You could not be more wrong. Holmes and I, we're colleagues. That's it."

"Really?"

"Yes," she states, hearing her phone. "I have to answer this. You don't mind?"

"Go on. Must be important if it's at one in the morning."

"Hello?"

"Yes, yes I am. I am currently lying dead in a gutter, yes. This is exactly why I'm able to answer your call right now." She smiles tiredly at Natasha, mouthing, worried roommate.

"No, I'm not at work. I'm at Rosie's."

"Yes, yes. Listen, did you actually want something or are you just bored?"

"I'll be home in a less than an hour. Don't burn down the house." She hangs up, giving an apologetic shrug to the woman across from her.

"Apparently, I am taking too long. So, what were we talking about?"  
"You should take on a client or two, Joanie."

"Three months. I've been with your business for three months. You've yet to convince me. What makes you think I will now?"  
"Because you love me?"

"Good theory, but not enough to do that."

"You know, he left early."

"Who did?"

"Holmes. He said he made a mistake, left through the back entrance."

"Sounds like him," smiled Joan fondly.

"He's never left one of my sessions before it ended."

"I'm sorry. He probably got an idea and just left. He does that a lot."

"Really?"

"Yes, and it gets annoying. I usually have to be around to rein him in, or another detective." Her phone buzzed. "Sorry." She read the text, sighing.

"Your roommate again?"  
"As always. Listen, I'll walk with you to the train station."

"Don't forget to bring food to feed him."

"Right." She walks over to the cashier, paying for their meal, smiling politely before asking for a detailed take-out order.

"Twenty minutes."

"Great. I'll be back to pick it up. Come on, Nat."

 

They walk side by side, the cool air drawing them closer. Joan stops in front of the entrance, smiling.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Afternoon shift. I have things to do in the morning."

"Like sleep?"

"No, I have some errands."

"You could take the day off, you know."

"Kate's sick, Angie's quit, it's our busiest day. I can manage it."

"Food's getting cold. Be careful."

"You too."

"I have a knife and I don't need it to defend myself."

"Don't we know it? Good night, Nat."

"Good night, Joan."

 

 

She found him sitting upside down on the couch, watching television. She yawned, dropping the warm bag on his stomach, mumbling a good night, and went to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

"I see you made it."

"We had a clear schedule."

"We?"

"Holmes and I ... didn't have any pressing issues."

"I would hope not."

"Shut up. And the clinic wasn't as busy as I thought it'd be."

"That's nice."

"And my roommate did their half of the errands."

"Lovely."


	2. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Joan becomes a fugitive and learns more about her flatmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I'm fixing things. I'll have the third part up quite soon! Promise!

He walks in two weeks later, never uttering a word about the incident, and hands her a collar.

"I can't get it quite right." She nods slowly, feeling the request a bit odd, but shrugging it off. She motioned for him to join her on the other side of the reception desk, watching him bow his head, almost as if offering his neck to a guillotine.

"Here," she says softly, gently tipping his up. His eyes remained lowered, and she realised there was nothing she could do. He was probably all set for his session with Nat, she thought bitterly. Shaking her head to clear the sudden rush of animosity in her mind, she quickly, but carefully, fastened the strip of leather, checking to see if it would fit. She wasn't an expert, or a novice. Collaring was something the D-squad did, something the S-squad never requested of others. It wasn't ... seemly. If anyone would, and could, break the rules, it'd be Sherlock. She pressed her index finger inside the gap between his neck and the collar, glad it wasn't too tight.

"Okay?" He nods. Okay, then. Note to self: Sherlock isn't much of a talker when he's in his session mind. God, wouldn't that be useful sometimes?

 

 

Nat refuses to see him, and he steps out, bright smile, a few seconds later. Joan is confused. If he hadn't planned to stay long, why would he have booked an hour-long session? She wants to ask Nat, but the Russian woman avoids her.

There is no late dinner at Rosie's.

 

 

She wakes up, the weak sunlight filling her room. It is a Saturday and she has the day off. She can stay in for once, if Sherlock is still busy reviewing his case files downstairs.

Her phone's text alert suggests otherwise.

 

Meet me in G's office.

ND UR hlp.

S

 

She sighed. Once, just once, she wanted a lazy day.

 

~*~*~*~

 

When she stepped out of the elevator, she was poised for an attack. Dealing with Sherlock all these months taught her one thing: if it seems odd, be prepared. The thin, long hall was empty, but there was loud chatter from the bullpen. Curious, she stepped closer.

 

The whole of the department was abuzz, whispering and pointing at a smug Sherlock Holmes.

"It isn't a request, Holmes. Inside. Now."

"We're about to--Watson! Finally. Can we go now?"

"Gregson, what's going on?"

"They're all being idiots."

"I didn't ask you."

"Holmes went and got himself collared, like the idiot he is."

"Is that bad?"

"Can we please talk inside?" She nods, hands reaching for Sherlock, tugging him inside the room with glass walls. Bell follows them, rushing to close the blinds on the curious faces trying to peek inside.

"It's bad for his other half, sure. They're not supposed to be apart for the first few days ... There's a whole list of things, rules. He's breaking at least five right now." The blood drains from her face, her eyes focusing on the black strip of leather.

"We tried to get him to file an assault charge, but he won't tell us anything." Bell adds, arms crossed. Gregson taps his shoulder, causing the younger man to drop his hands.

"It'll scare the Sub ... Holmes." He says, answering her questioning gaze.

"Assault?" she asks, her eyes almost filling with tears. She glares at Sherlock, who is decidedly staring at the the ground. She's angry, not sad. If this is one of the side-effects, she is going to kill him.

"If the collaring was forced on him, he has the right to file a report. The assailant, if guilty, gets automatic life imprisonment or the death penalty. We take things like this seriously."

"Oh."

"You didn't notice the collar, Joan?" asks Bell, confused. If anyone would notice it, it would be her.

"No ..."she stammers, shaken.

"He didn't come in wounded, too quiet, anything out of the ordinary on yesterday?"

"Yesterday?"

"He didn't have it when he came on Thursday. You were with him yesterday."

"I had work."

"So nothing?" scoffed Bell.

"I'm sorry. I saw it, when I left him some coffee when I got home, but ..."

"But what?" pressed Gregson.

"I didn't ask questions. I ... I didn't know it was so important."

"She is not part of The Community, Gregson. It is why she was chosen as my companion, if you can recall."

"Right. I'm sorry, Joan. We take these cases seriously. Even if the idiot preens like a bird about his assault."

"I'll go arrest the suspect." Offers Bell, who is suddenly anxious to leave the room.

"I'll join you."

"Holmes, you can't go."

"What?"

"We discussed this. You aren't allowed to consult until you give us a name or your partner comes to clear their name from neglect charges."

"Is ... he serious?"

"Dreadfully serious, Watson. Apparently, I am being persecuted for my way of life."

"Holmes ... don't. This is not persecution. We are trying to protect you. If you'd only give us a name."

"What's next? Omegas giving up their Alphas if they're a tad too rough?"

"Holmes ..."

"Or, or Feeders giving up their Eaters when they drink an ounce too much?"

"Holmes! Stop this! We are not discriminating! Now, leave before I put you in a cell and call you a therapist." Joan watches as they struggle to fight for dominance, already knowing Sherlock is doomed. Werewolves had their own set of laws, something she learned during her time with Liam. Vampires, as Carrie said as she filled out the special blood forms, were something no one liked discussing.

"I'm sorry Joan. But if you could make him see reason, I'd be in debt to you."

"I ... I'll try." She rushes to follow the moody detective, the hushed whispers of scandalised interest filling her ears.

"Get back to work!" barks Gregson, anger colouring his tone.

 

"What, the, hell, Sherlock." She hisses, as they enter the small elevator. Mercifully, it is empty. She glares at the console, trying to ignore the heated stares from the whole floor, watching as a collared Sub was completely at ease with a Normal, hours after his assault.

"I won't apologise."

"Oh no, of course not. The great Sherlock Holmes apologise? Never!" She pauses, trying to calm down. If being angry would affect him, she had to be calm. She had to be. "You better fucking explain before I kill you with my bare hands," she says through gritted teeth. His eyes gleam with interest as she shudders in disgust.

"I was being facetious. Tell me."

"Unless you want everyone to know, I suggest we discuss this in the comfort of our home." She tries to ignore him, with his cheery whistling and broad grin. Why was the elevator so damn slow?


	3. Anger is a form of passion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Joan nearly kills a police officer, has a talk about her criminal lifestyle, and breaks a lamp.
> 
> Or, Joan learns being the Domme to Sherlock's Sub is not as easy as it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I still refuse to believe all these "hits" and "kudos" aren't the work of my friends, trying to cheer me up.
> 
> Still ... thanks for reading guys (or just one guy/gal/ friend)!

“Tea?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen, his coat and scarf drifting to the ground behind him. She scowls as the urge to go and dig her heels in them becomes dreadfully tempting.

“Watson?” he asks, his voice cheerful, as if he hadn’t gotten molested, hadn’t twisted their lives into the most grotesque joke.

“I don’t want tea. I want you to explain.”

“I’ll make us some tea, then.”

“Sherlock!” He ignores her, searching for the kettle.

 

* * *

 

She reaches for her phone, trying to find something—anything—on how to get a trauma victim such as him, to talk. Because that is what he is--a victim of trauma. She takes the seat furthest from him on the table, something the first website emphasises (do not let them be close to their assailant), watching as he sets up the table, as if they were having a tea party to celebrate her law-breaking.

“Deranged psycho-babble does not suit you, Watson.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. And neither does unjustified guilt.”

“Oh, it’s justified.”

“It is not,” he says, turning to the whistling kettle.

 

* * *

 

 

When it comes to the speaking part of their talk, which happens after the pouring, nothing really happens. He is focused on trying to find the most vital points of their uncommon companionship. He wants to explain to her in way that won't make her leave. They've been bonded for 22 hours, forty minutes, and 13 seconds. Not that he's counting. He's not. He could honestly care less about this whole thing.

She is too absorbed with the fact she is now a criminal.

“I knew what I was doing.”

“That makes one of us.”

“What I mean is, I hoped no one else would notice.”

“That there was suddenly a collar on you that won’t be able to be removed unless you break this bond thing? Which, I'll add, I learned today, is slightly against the law.”

“Yes.”

“You are an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

“Why?”

“The bond …”

“Why me, Sherlock? You had Nat. You had other options. Some of which are actual members of your community.”

“Normals don’t apply to jobs without putting limitations on communities they are exposed to.”

“Yeah, well those Normals are stupid.”

“You were the only one, out of all the candidates, all of the staff actually, who did not care who it was—be it werewolf, vampire, or us. Why is that?”

“Are you saying it’s my fault because I’m not prejudiced?”

“Once again, Watson, you fail to grasp the meaning.”

“Oh, I failed? Really? Well, explain it to me, since I can't seem to grasp anything.”

“I …” Sherlock clamps his mouth shut as the doorbell rings, followed by loud knocking.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“When am I ever?” She rises from the chair, realising at the last second, that it is the throne-like chair. Yet another way to subtly show who the dominant is. Scowling, she answers the door, her voice bitter.

“What?”

“Joan, mind if I come in?”

“Gregson, we are suspended, remember? This happened less than an hour ago.”

“We might have a lead on his assault.”

“But I thought …”

“Even if he doesn’t press charges, we’re obligated to look into it. It’s the law. It's more routine now rather than assault charges. It’s akin to an Alpha neglecting their Omega.” She nods, understanding the comparison, her hand gripping the door, still not letting him inside.

“We aren’t going to traumatise him further, are we, by making him think about it?”

“I’ve dealt with a few domestic cases back in my day. I promise to leave if I upset him.” In the blink of an eye, an immense desire to slam the door on his face, to barricade the front door and ignore him wells up inside her. She nods, still wary. He tries to smile, not showing her his teeth, she realises, as if she were an Alpha. Sherlock's Alpha. She  swiftly steps back, opening the door.

“I … Come in. I’m so sorry. I don’t … It’s just today …” He shrugs depreciatively.

“Any other Normal in your shoes would have run ages ago. It’s fine. The protection instinct ramps up in some people in cases like these. Betas are shown to defend the homes of abused Omegas, even if they’re strangers.”

“I’ve heard about that phenomenon. Liam, Carrie, and I always used to … we never believed it.”

“Well, it’s true. Is he in the kitchen?”

“It’s where I left him.” She frowns, thinking her words too commandeering, but Gregson doesn’t notice, following her toward the sulky consultant.

“Holmes.”

“Captain Gregson. I see Watson finally let you in. Tea?”

“We need to …”

“No need. I have figured it all out.”

“You know that’s not how it works.”

“Did you catch the butcher?” Joan interrupts, already acutely aware of the headache to come from their roundabout arguing.

“Yes. Bell managed fine. Sherlock, there are …”

“Gregson …”

“Miss Watson?”

“Sherlock’s right. You can’t force him to give up his partner. It’s a matter of how much is too much power. You’re not helping him. You’re hurting him. He refused your so-called help. You said so yourself. It's just routine.”

“Joan, listen. If a paired Omega came into your E.R. with bruises and significant blood loss, would you report it?”

“Of course. Unless—”

“If a eater brings in their feeder, with only two pints left, would you report it?”

“Well, yes, but there might be a different story. They—”

“There is no different story. Sherlock was abused, Joan. Why don’t you want to catch the person responsible?”

“I do! I just … He doesn’t.”

“As I’ve made it clear.”

“He’s traumatised, if he’s self-satisfied instead of wary about all this. Joan, you see it.” She stares at Sherlock, who hands are shaking. Fear, she realises as the emotion overpowers her.

“Gregson, I’m sorry but you’re making Sherlock uncomfortable.”

“Really? That’s a change from the arrogant—”

“Gregson!” She growls, stepping between him and Sherlock. The older man raises his hands, palms facing hers, another strategy to get him to calm down.

"I'm not stupid, Joan."

"He's not."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"You'll need to fill out paperwork. You'll never get rid of him now."

"Bonds are breakable, aren't they?"

"In extreme cases, yes. Unless the Sub wants out. You're stuck with him."

"You hate me, Sherlock. We're like two cats, fighting all the time. We can't ... bond."

"Where do we sign?" The wave of despair and the feeling of being unwanted flood her systems, forcing her to shut her eyes, to grab at the table by her side.

"Joan?"

"Control your emotions, Sherlock! It's getting annoying." Suddenly, it stops; she feels nothing but white, and how is that even an emotion? Gregson stares, looking between the pale doctor and the blushing detective.

"Joan, has that happened before?"

"Yes, even since I assaulted him. I didn't know. Can we even do that? Normals can't do things like this, can they?"

"Joan, focus. What do you feel?"

"Anger. Despair. Disgust."

"Why?"

"Sherlock tricked me. I'm a criminal and I'll be fired from the hospital."

"And the last thing?"

"That's not me. That's Sherlock. Look, this is one of those side effects, Gregson. I bonded with him, remember? Or he bonded with me."

"That doesn't happen this soon."

"We've known each other almost a year now. It's our close friendship."

"Yeah, sure."

"May I add that I would just like to sign these papers and go to bed?"

"We're eating first. And since when do you willingly want to go to bed?"

"Since now. Give me the papers, Gregson."

"Hold on, Sherlock. We don't know what they say. We could be signing away our movie rights." He doesn't smile, instead reaching for the stack, signing them with the same manner he does most things--gracefully, and leaves.

"They're registration forms. You know, as well as everyone, that all new relationships must be reported to the authorities, to ensure no harm comes to the submissive partner."

"What about the other partner? Don't we get a say in it?"

"Joan, most of these pairings, save the assaults, are matches. If you're planning on fighting this, you'll be the first in this state." She hesitates.

"Breaking the bond will hurt him, maybe damage him irrevocably."

"Here," she says, shoving the signed papers. "You know where the door is."

 

A shower. That's what she needs. A nice, warm, relaxing shower.

 

* * *

 

Sitting in her bed, drying out her hair, she realises just how quiet the empty room is, without Sherlock barging in and talking aimlessly as he is wont to do in bouts of sheer boredom.

The sudden throng of longing and want hits her, and she's furious. She grabs the lamp from the night stand, sending it crashing on the other side of the room.

There.

She's her own person. No bond will ever change that.

Not even one with Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She needs something or someone to blame.
> 
> She's a Normal. She can't ... feel like this. She shouldn't.
> 
> She doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ... don't really know what I'm doing anymore, so ... I hope you like it?

"We should go out to dinner on Friday," she had said, not looking up from the files spread out in front of her.

She wasn't nervous. Nervous implied caring. She didn't care. This was a friendly gesture. It didn't mean anything.

Nothing.

He set mug of coffee down with a small clatter, almost as if stunned.

Ignoring her suggestion, because that's what it is--a suggestion, he points out the fault in her note-taking, voice slightly trembling. "Do try to do better, Watson. You're meant to be my apprentice.  I can't have you mucking up a cold case."

She lets it go, not because she's given up, far from it, but because she knows he heard her. They've gotten to the point where she no longer affects him as much as she had before, where she had to be within reach, and he could never leave her sight, for fear of the unknown.

* * *

  
They wrapped up a fairly intriguing case on Thursday, him falling to the couch to regain the sleep he'd lost, and she to her bathroom, to clean up the criminal of week's blood off her hands before throwing herself under the covers, ignoring the world until long after her alarm rang for her morning run.  
  
She crawled out of bed sometime after noon, rolling her eyes at seeing the detective watching his television sets, a bowl of cereal in front of him, eyes darting across them all.  
"Morning."  
"Afternoon, Watson. For dinner, I was thinking we could try that new Italian place that opened up, the one that refuses to deliver."  
"What?"  
"That is, if you're agreeable. Of course we could try--"  
"No, Italian's ... good. I like Italian. is seven fine?" He hummed non-committally.  
And she'd lost him to the allure of building up his attention span, so she turned to the kitchen, where a still cool glass of her smoothie sat on the counter, as unimposing as poison, which she once found was one of their spices in the cabinet. She knew better than to ask if it was for her.  
"Is it safe?"  
"I tasted it. It seemed fine."  
"You almost drank cyanide."  
"That was one time, and to be fair, I was not aware of your candid friendship with Gregson."  
"Yes, well comes with being part of the club."  
"Pardon?"  
"The Holmes-is-a-giant-idiot-sometimes-but-we-still-love-him club."  
"Ah." And he remains silent, a few times muttering about the way a certain person looks, how this one is having an affair with the director, how the cameraman is in love with this person. For Joan, these are the best times, watching him try to deduce people, from the few glimpses they give. She sits on the only chair in the room, still uncomfortable about the way they are, in terms of power, as she notices he is sitting on the floor, looking up at the screens towering above him.  
  
The dominance in their relationship, be it their professional one or their friendship or their new bond, was never up for question. Each one gave as good as they got, neither backed down. Sometimes, though, he would back down, resist fighting, agree simply to agree and it angered her. It was like he was changing and she didn't want change. She wanted ...  
She took a sip of her smoothie.  
She wanted to go back to bed if she was thinking deeply about her life. It was too early for her, let alone for her sombre thoughts.  
  
 

* * *

  
  
After their dinner, which they spent in relative quietness, her refusing to believe something, him refusing to bring it up, they had opted to walk by the river. She was intent on persuading the native Brit that their river served the same purpose as the Thames. He had laughed, but followed her to the almost secluded walkway.  
  
"We can walk along this one too."  
"And be mugged no less than four times."  
"I'm sorry, does the Thames," she said with a soft smile on her lips, trying to mimic a British accent, and failing horribly. "The bloody Thames offer more muggings?" She catches the quick smile on his lips, before he gruffly agrees.  
"Five times, I assure you Watson. Your wallet would be taken no less than five times during one walk. More, depending on which part of the river you chose to follow."  
She brushed her hand against his. She wouldn't push. She couldn't push. She had no right.  
"I see you have noticed I am missing a particular item of clothing."  
"It's not clothing."  
"You really should read a book, Watson. I hate for you to be this dense about things out of choice."  
"Are you insulting me?"  
"Nevertheless," he continues, as if she hadn't spoken. "I am not wearing my ..."  
"Collar."  
"I am not wearing it because I find you are right."  
"Go on ..."  
"You are right. Trying to force a bond is much like trying to force a friendship."  
"Oh." She doesn't say anything, because every cell in her body wants to rebel, wants to say no, wants to fight him on this, but all she feels is conflicted and nervous.  
"What?"  
"Watson, not to alarm you, but perhaps we are about to be mugged."  
She tries to fall into the stance she was taught, tries to bring up all her defence lessons she took as a child. Being a woman in New York is not the best. You have to defend yourself, my little Joan of Arc, her father had said, back when things had been good between her parents.  
  
"How many, do you think?"  
"Too many," answers a brash voice from the shadows, stepping out into their circle of light, pooling around them as if a force field. Another person shoots the street lamp out, and she shoves Sherlock away, kicking her way past a masked, and of course they're masked, person who tries to get the better of her.  
"Okay?" The silence of her companion is louder than the grunts of the two, men by the way they're moving and the sound of their cursing, idiots trying to subdue her. She turns, and one of them whips out a gun, slamming it against her head. She wobbles unsteadily on her heels, and in a flash, she kicks at her gunned assailant, while falling into the arms of the other.  
  
Faintly, she hears whispering.  
"And who is this, my dear?"  
"No one."  
"She looks like someone."  
"She is nothing."  
"Then you won't mind me disposing of her."  
"Leave her. She's not worth it."  
"Oh, but Sherly, my dear, she is to me. It's a matter of jealousy. Girlish pride, if you will. I don't like knowing she counts more than me. She doesn't, does she Sherlock dearest?"  
"No." She wants to scream, wants to rail against her captor. Instead, she tries to focus on Sherlock's voice, strained and pitiful. No. Something else. Ignoring the exchange once more, she focuses on trying to identify the woman.  
  
Tall, dressed stylishly, richly, and she sounds like she's from across the tunnel. Ew, she thinks. She almost laughs crazily. What is her life reduced to, if she'll laugh while she's being held captive?  
  
"Excellent! So we'll dump her in the river. She can swim, can't she? Oh well. She can learn today." She wants to ask what the hell the woman's going on about, but she's being carried to the railing and no. She tries to land a punch, a kick, a bite, anything. But her concussion does not help her coordination and soon, she is falling. She can hear Sherlock yell out, beg for her wake up, to not die.  
  
Her hands reach out, seeking purchase on any surface available, trying to stop her screaming. If she dies, then she won't die without dignity. She'll die a soldier, even if only in spirit.

* * *

  
Of course, that's when her cruel body decides to wake her. She bolts into an upright position, chest heaving, eyes wide, lips trembling, trying to bring in air in shaky gulps. Dream, it was only a dream. It wasn't real. It was not real.  
  
Even tired beyond all belief, they have their connection, and that is who is to blame, not her screaming, for Sherlock appearing, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes.  
  
"From what I felt, it was quite bad, Watson." And he lifts the covers, settling under them, and turning away from her.  
  
And she blames their connection, not the fact that he is nowhere near a river and she is not dying, for her breath slowly returning to normal. She refuses to think about how his pheromones, which surround her now that he's in the room, are responsible. She blames her previous sleepless nights for the fact she lays back down, heart no longer racing. It's a simple fact of her being too tired to kick him out of her bed. She doesn't actually want him here. She can't. She's a Normal. And Normals long for other Normals. They don't long for their bond-mate, or any other orientation.

  
She doesn't know who or what to blame when she feels his hand reach for hers, for her clutching onto it as if it were the only thing keeping her from falling.


	5. Suspension Is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan refuses to deal with this because there's NOTHING to deal with. She's a normal, who had a bad dream.
> 
> Maybe if she says it enough, she'll start to believe it.
> 
> ((But more importantly, of course they go back to solving crimes)).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hands out cookies*
> 
> I'm real sorry I took so long. But thanks for waiting?

He's not in her bed, or room, when she wakes up.

Further inspection, she's not worried or anything, reveals he's not even in the brownstone.

  
She doesn't care, she tells herself.

 

Besides, work is what matters and she has that today.

 

* * *

 

It's a spur-of-the-moment thing, something she saw during her morning run.

At least, that's what she rationalizes when she enters the surprisingly discreet store during her lunch break. She wouldn't have guessed it was one of those shops, had it not been for the logo in the lower right side corner of the bay window. It was one she had seen many times on the lilac plastic bags Sherlock brought on days he went out. It was the same logo on the business cards of the club. The one she had been forced to quit.

If quitting meant she was left a voicemail stating her contract had been terminated, then yes, she quit.

 

She shook her head, as if to dispel the thoughts from her head, and strode toward the store with a sense of purpose.

On the outside, it looked fairly commonplace. There was nothing to suggest it was in any way different from the dry cleaners next door. It was tastefully simple.

  
That's what drew her in. The place looked nice. Nothing else.

 

 

The door opened silently, and soft music--classical, piano--played in the background. The lone worker glanced up, looking her over, and sighed softly.

"First time in New York?"

"No," she answers, confused.

"Well, are you lost?"

She wants to say yes, yes she is lost. And it's all her friend/house mate's fault. "I'm not."

"Right," the girl replies, stretching the word a few extra syllables.

"I-- I want to buy a--" She turns red. No, damn it. She's Joan Watson. Class Type N. She is not Class Type D. She is not one of them. She's Joan Watson, Class Type N.

"Well, we have a beginner's section in room 2. So, if you'll follow me."

 

 

 

"S, D, or B?"

"D."

"Huh. Uh, section 2 is for beginner women. Since you're a D, it'll be subsection 1. Are you sure it's D?"

"Yes?"

"Cos you look like a B to me."

"A what?"

"B. Both. You know, a Switch."

"There's a third category, which means you're not necessarily dominant or submissive. You go both ways."

"I never heard that before."

"Well, you wouldn't. Not many people like Switches. Like how some people refuse to accept bisexuals, even now."

"Some people are idiots."

 

* * *

 

The  lilac box fits snugly in her bag, between her first aid kit and some new book Sherlock recommends to help her in learning the trade of deduction. When she returns, she vows to ignore it for the rest of the day.

  
It doesn't work out that way.

 

 

When she enters the brownstone, the first thing that she sees is Sherlock's coat neatly hung next to Detective Bell's coat. The second thing she sees is Sherlock himself.

"Watson."

"Sherlock."

"How was your day?" he asks, nonchalantly, as he reaches for her bag. She tries not flinch as she thinks, yet again, of its contents.

"Fine. Yours?"

"I was thoroughly chastised for my actions regarding the past week--and for my being alone once more. It seems they do not believe me when I say I am fine and able to roam about the city without you. However, since we both have written our consent to this ... unusual partnership, you will find we are NYPD consultants yet again."

"Sounds nice. Are we ordering in?" He smiles

"Detective Bell has resolved that particular problem. We ordered take-away mere minutes ago."

"So ... new case?"

"Yes! We were in the midst of discussing it when you arrived."

"Sorry to interrupt. Hey, Bell."

"Joan. Sherlock demanded I wait for you. Said it'd only be a few minutes."

"He needs an audience."

"I do not."

 

To be fair, she doesn't pay much attention to Bell recounting the triple-homicide. She doesn't pay attention to Sherlock, except for reaching across the table to grab his hand, and attention, muttering that he's rambling and to take a deep breath. Or to tell him to eat before it gets cold. Which, of course, gets him both eating and continuing his speech, until she reaches and lightly pinches his hand.

She kicks him with the tip of her boot when he insults Bell or any member of the NYPD.

Most of her attention is on the box in her bag.

Okay, almost all of her attention is on it.

 

 

Apparently, the case is solved by the end of dinner, and she realises later--it was merely a diversion. Something to distract Sherlock, and by extent--Joan, from realising this was a set-up, a way to see how they were adjusting. As they both lead Bell to the door, Joan grabs her bag, and heads for the stairs.

"I see you went shopping during your lunch break." She pauses, brow wrinkling in confusion.

"I wanted a box of chocolates, is that a crime?"

"Chocolates? Is that what they call them now?" She smiles sarcastically, pulling out the box of gourmet chocolates, fingers brushing past the lilac box.

"It's what they've always been called, Sherlock." She waves the box back and forth, trying not to bite her lower lip in fear, fear of getting caught.

"Chocolates aren't the only thing you bought today." She shrugs, a small amount of tension leaving her body. It wasn't a lie.

"I'm going to go finish reading whatever philosophy book you shoved in here. Promise you won't burn down the house tonight?"

"I rather like my odds for tomorrow morning." She glares at him, about to retort when he stops her.

"I was merely kidding, Watson. I'll go to bed in an hour or so," he waves her away. It's only when she reaches the top step that she realises she wanted confirmation. She wanted to know if whatever happened yesterday, the sharing thing, would happened again.

 

 

He drops on the bed like a stone, and she realises she's almost never seen him sleep on a bed. Sofas, couches, chairs, floors, lounge chairs, one odd time--boxes, but almost never beds.

He huffs, staring at the book in her hands. "Load of rubbish, that one is." She taps the side of her reading glasses before looking at him, and calmly replying,

"You're the one who suggested I read it."

"Yeah, well, never said it'd be good." She scoffs, slamming the book shut and pulling off the glasses, setting them inside their case, and closing it with a bit more effort than required. She sets them aside, making sure they're not in the way, before reaching for the lamp. She pauses, realising she broke hers yesterday, before sighing. Of course Sherlock would buy her another one, thinking it was his fault. Sherlock. She turns to look at Sherlock, who stares back, seeming tired. She wants to ask what he did today, but her eyes travel down to his neck, to the leather strip, with the steel clasps and the ring for ... She grips the small chain on the lamp.

"A leash," she mumbles, as they're plunged into darkness.


End file.
